


The Best of All Possible Worlds

by princesskay



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Abortion, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Making Up, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: They made the decision together to terminate the pregnancy, and Claire knows it was the right choice - but truly accepting that fact may take more time than she thought.





	1. Chapter 1

If she closes her eyes, she can still remember the temperature of the room, and how her arms prickled with goosebumps despite the sweat drying beneath the thin hospital gown. The backs of her eyelids match the stark whiteness of the walls, almost blinding under the overhead lights. That clinical, sterilized smell still clings to the inside of her nostrils, a ghastly sense memory that might never fade. 

Numbed but awake, she had felt nothing and everything. 

The weight of her choice. And also of her resolve. 

The finality when the doctor stood back to strip off his gloves. A possibility ended in a matter of moments. 

This pain her chest, both dull and sharp, is not regret, but rather rather acceptance of a purposefully missed opportunity, that whimsical daydream of what could have been. A fork in the road had presented itself, but she had chosen the other path.  _ They  _ had chosen. 

Claire opens her eyes now in front of the bathroom mirror, regarding her reflection with all the cool indifference she can muster. Her face is placid as a still lake, not reflecting a single nuance of the storm raging inside her. 

She’s stood here a hundred times, staring down her choices and her fears. Pain and disappointment have never strayed far from the borders of her happiness, like jackals preying on easy blood, and she should be accustomed to the sinking sensation that her own desires have been subverted once again. 

This time should be no different. But it feels as if there should be some sort of rite of passage because she can see the fast approaching threshold of a new life just in front of her toes. 

With a deep, shaking breath, she opens the bathroom vanity to pluck the slender pair of stainless steel scissors from the shelf. The door swings shut, returning her view of herself. 

Her blond hair falls around her shoulders in thick, natural waves. It had once gone all the way down the middle of her back, but the days of youthful braids and princess like tresses had passed when Francis first lodged his foot into the door of Congress. 

She had chosen a shorter, yet still feminine look. When they attended a convention or a gala, she put it in a conservative but fashionable bun at her nape. Francis enjoyed slowly tugging each bobby pin and tie free at the end of a long night of hand-shaking, shoulder-rubbing, and champagne-toasting. Running his fingers through it as she slipped free of her evening gown, and at last roping it around his fist and pulling tight when their bodies came together. 

It had been on a night such as that when everything changed. Without their knowledge, something had slipped past the barriers and precautions, tossing a small but mighty match into the gasoline-slicked stage that is campaigning. 

Claire holds the scissors between both hands, feeling the metal cool against her sweating palms.  

Deep inside, something has shifted. She feels the urge to make a change to her outward appearance, if only to match this shadow falling inside her. 

She lifts the scissors abruptly, and snatches a lock of hair with the other. Pressing one blade taut against the strands, she hardens her gaze in the mirror. 

_ I won’t miss it. But maybe he will.  _

The thought holds her back for mere second before she disregards what Francis might think. He’s asked so much of her that he can handle one small physical alteration. He should. He will. 

The sound of the scissors slicing through the lock of hair echoes through her head. 

And then, gently, the shorn hairs slip between her fingers, and fall in scattered loops in the bathroom sink.

Claire lets her hand fall, and the remaining lock of cut hair falls across one eye. It’s short, just above her chin. Ugly next to remaining length. 

She blows the hair from her eyes with a defiant puff of her lips, and grabs the next section of hair. Cutting harshly with the scissors. Leaving behind jagged edges. Making her way around her jaw and the back of her head with desperate jabs of the blades. 

Over and over, the sound of splitting hair reaches into her ears, down into her chest where the deepest pain lives. Rejoicing at her tears. 

There’s some torturous beast inside her that longs for this immolation. That expects - no demands - her misery. And she’s earned it - God how she’s earned it. 

When it’s done, the sink and floor are littered with hair. Some of it clings to the front of her shirt and trousers. What’s left of her hair is a shorn, jagged mess. 

The scissors fall to the sink with a clatter. 

A guttural sob rises from the back of her throat, rushing forth in agony at the dull expression in her eyes. She clings to the cool ceramic of the sink, hoisting herself forward to cry in desperation at her own reflection. 

_ Feel something. Anything! _

She’s not crying because she lost the child. She can live without children. 

It’s the sacrifice - one out of hundreds. But this one means more than all the rest. And she can’t feel a damn scrap of regret or horror - or humiliation. 

The scream dies at birth in her throat. She sinks to the floor on her knees, and droops to the cool tile on her back. The temperature of the ceramic floor seeps through her clothes, reminding her of that room where the procedure happened again. 

She swipes at her cheeks, doing away with the remnants of her tears. She begins to breathe again, steady inhales and exhales that she balances against the tempo of her heartbeat. 

_ Breathe. Just breathe.  _

If she can breathe, she can think. If she can think, she can persuade herself to go on. 

Such a simplistic, linear brand of logic is appealing to her aloof and sterile sensibilities. She’ll lie here until she breathe, think, and pick herself back up. And if she closes her eyes, she can reason with herself. 

_ Pregnancy. Realization. Horror. Choices. Abortion. It’s all as simple and as complicated as that. Tears are unnecessary, and worthless.  _

Claire opens her eyes, staring into the overhead light and ignoring the burn in her eyes. Her breath hitches as she recalls. 

They had discussed it over dinner, in between Francis’s grumbling on the campaign and her remarks about work. Bookended by an idle conversation, and a shared cigarette. 

Francis didn’t spare words for compassion or pity. He was a man of action, and his first remark had been,  _  “Don’t worry, Claire; we can take care of his discreetly. And I’ll make certain to find you the best doctor there is.”  _

Not that she had expected him to even consider keeping the child, but a part of her rejected his hand around hers and his following reassurance.  _ I’ll take care of you.  _

Despite the dark turn her thoughts have taken, Claire jostles awake from the reverie to find that she can breathe again. The knot in her throat has receded, the emotion tucked back into each separate compartment she’s created for them. She wipes her face, blinks her eyes clear. 

Gripping the edge of the sink, she pulls herself upright. 

Her reflection is tainted with blotched cheeks and puffy eyes. The bright red bloodshot of tears highlights the deep, sky blue of her irises. 

She glances at the clock. Francis will be home in a few hours. She will need to clean up before then, and if she doesn’t want questions, fix this atrocity she’s done to her hair. 

She strips out of her clothes, methodically folding each garment and laying them in a neat stack on the closed lid of the toilet. When she steps into the shower, and tugs the curtain shut, she convinces herself she’s stepped into another world. And as the water pours down on her bare shoulders, she imagines that it can wash away with this dreadful feeling inside. 

 

~

 

She doesn’t explain herself to the stylist. And despite the woman’s wide-eyed expression of horror at Claire’s hackjob, she doesn’t ask. Luckily for her. Claire doesn’t suffer stupid questions, nor obvious ones. 

She sits upright and rigid in the hairdresser’s chair as the woman styles and snips, crafting her butchered hair into a stylish pixie cut. 

While the scissors snip around her head, Claire imagines what she’ll say to Francis. 

She’s thought of saying nothing at all, but she knows something so drastic won’t go unnoticed - or unsaid. He will say something. He always does. And he will know if she’s lying. 

No, she must be the first one to remark on this new, bold look. 

Claire smiles faintly.  _ I’ll make it about him. A change of hairstyle to go with your change in title. We’re moving up in the world. I wanted something more sophisticated.  _

He’ll like it. The style, and the off-handed stroke to his ego. 

Claire tips generously when she leaves - for the woman’s patience, and her silence. 

When she arrives home, she goes directly to the bathroom to clean up the mess she left behind. When all the sheared hair is gone from the floor and the sink, she imagines that it was never there at all. 

Her head feels lighter, her neck less tense. Her shoulders are free of the weight and brush of hair. It’s a nice feeling, one that she throws herself into. She can pretend it was a calculated choice, based on style rather than eviscerating emotion. If she believes it, so will Francis. 

An hour later, her phone rings. 

Laying aside the book she’s reading, she swipes the phone from the coffee table. 

_ Francis.  _

Her chest tightens at the thought of hearing his voice. Relief, because she knows it can save her. Fear, because she knows he can hear when she’s upset. 

She accepts the call, dragging in a deep breath. 

“Hello.” She angles her voice for fond and sweet, but it comes out as more of a tentative question. 

“Claire,” He says, his voice crackling deep and weary through the phone. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, immediately. 

“I’m afraid I’ll be a little late tonight. Something came up.” 

Claire swallows back a complaint. It won’t ease his frayed nerves, nor hers. 

“Okay.” She says, calmly, “Stay as long as you need to.” 

“I don’t know what I would do without you.” He says, saying at the end of the soft remark. 

Claire manages her smile. “Neither do I.” 

“And, Claire, please eat dinner without me.” Francis says, “The doctor said to make sure you eat routinely, even if you don’t feel like it.” 

Claire tips the mouthpiece of the phone away from her chin, and compresses her mouth into a line against the heavy sigh roiling at the back of her tongue. 

“Claire?” He says her name in a low, warning tone. 

“I will.” 

“Good. And plenty of water.” 

“I know what the doctor said.” 

She presses her eyes shut as the words come out defensive and thorny. 

“Are you resting like he said?” 

_ Christ, he just doesn’t give up.  _

“I haven’t been exerting myself, if that’s what you mean.” 

“Good.” He repeats, this time letting it end at that. 

“I  _ did  _ go get my hair cut.” Claire says, choosing suddenly to tell him now. Perhaps it will be better if he isn’t looking her in the eyes. 

“Really?” 

“It’s different. A lot different.” 

“How so?” 

“Shorter.” 

“Very short?” 

“Yes.” 

There’s a brief pause, and she can hear him breathing slow, steady. 

“What made you do that?” 

“I wanted a change.” She says, “Something more mature, sophisticated. We’re moving up in the world, Francis; and I want to encourage that change - even if it is something trivial like a hairstyle.” 

“I’m intrigued to see it.” Francis says, chuckling low, “I already find you mature and sophisticated.” 

“I know, but does the world? The voters? They want someone responsible, intelligent.”

“I’m sure they do.” 

Silence lengthens between them, and she knows he’ll be going soon. They’ve never preferred to talk over the phone - they don’t mince words, and what is said between them should be said in person. 

“Well, I have to go.” He says, as if on cue, “There’s still a lot to be done tonight. I’ll see you soon.” 

“Like I said, take your time.” 

“Mm, don’t wait up for me.” 

They disconnect, omitting an extraneous “goodbye” or “I love you”. They don’t need the reassurance. 

 

~

 

It’s been some time since Claire stayed home while Francis campaigned. They prefer to be on the road together, working side-by-side for their common goal. 

But he’d insisted - rather  _ demanded  _ \- that she stay home and rest. 

_ For how long?  _

_ As long as the doctor said.  _

_ That could be four or five weeks.  _

_ You’ve gotten this far, you can handle four weeks of rest.  _

His tone had brooked no argument. 

And so, one day after he’d brought her home from the clinic, he’d packed his bags and left her alone at the house. Promising to be back soon. 

That promise had come while she laid in bed, pretending to sleep, while she listened to him get dressed. She’d kept her eyes shut when he leaned over the bed, leaving a kiss against her hair. He’d whispered the words in a voice he rarely used. She could hear his love for her, and his pity. 

And she almost wished he’d said nothing at all, if pity was how he truly felt about her situation. She didn’t need his pity. Didn’t want it. She’d faced this decision with confidence and mettle, certain she was doing the right thing. For both of them. 

But now, as she sits  on the couch in their house - their empty house - she wishes he’d kept his promise to return with haste tonight. It was the first time in three weeks that he’d been so late, but she had been waiting for it. They’re sixteen weeks into the the campaign, and the competition it beginning to intensify. 

She hadn’t expected the loneliness to gnaw so fiercely at her ankles. Hadn’t expected to feel such a void within her body now that some growing thing had been extinguished. 

She continues checking the clock even as the sun goes down, and darkness tells her what she doesn’t need a watch to know. It’s very late, and so is Francis. 

Finally, disgruntled and humming with anxious energy, she rises from the couch to find some diversion. As she walks past the bedroom, she notes the laundry piling up in the hamper. 

The doctor had ordered no labor, lifting, or strenuous activity of any kind. 

But the bleeding has stopped, and she feels able. 

Claire picks up the basket tentatively, and feeling no pain, hoists it up to her hip, and marches it down to the laundry room. She focuses on the menial task. Running the water, pouring the detergent, loading the washer. Each movement mechanical, focused, detached. 

Just as she finishes loading the washer, she hears something from the front of the house, and rushes down to the hall. It could have been a car door slamming, she thinks. But as she enters the living room, and throws back the curtains, only darkness greets her. She’s still alone - utterly alone. 

With a frustrated grunt, she tosses the curtains back in place. 

_ Get it together. I’m stronger than this - I know I am.  _

Biting her lower lip, she glances at her phone lying on the coffee table. She thinks of calling him, but doesn’t want to interrupt his work. He won’t be happy, and it won’t matter. Having another stilted, disingenuous conversation over the phone won’t make this awful, sinking feeling inside her go away. Pretending she’s doing just fine won’t make it so. 

Instead, she sits back down on the couch, and reads another chapter of her book. 

When she hears the washer cycle end, she fills another basket and hauls it down to the laundry room. She moves the wet clothes into the dryer, and starts the washer again for the next load.

As she finishes throwing the dirty clothes into the washer, she finds herself panting, slightly dizzy. A cold sweat breaks across her forehead, and the back of her neck. A high-pitched ringing invades her ears as she sags against the rumbling washer. 

_ Chug. Chug. Chug.  _

The sound of the washer spinning echoes through her head. 

_ Clink. Clink. Clink.  _

She can hear zippers and buttons flying against the metal interior of the dryer. 

_ Thud. Thud. Thud.  _

Her heart hammering a dull, broken rhythm. 

Heat engulfs her throat and cheeks as the emotion blindsides her. Clinging the washing machine, she gasps against the tide of swallowing, blinding pain. She machine rattles and vibrates below her, and it’s almost like the rock of a mother’s arms - perhaps the churning sea of a womb. 

“Claire?” 

His voice cuts through the cacophony of chaos in her brain. 

“Claire?” Sharper now, edged with worry. 

She lifts her head from the washer just as his hands clutch her hip the small of her back. 

“Claire, are you all right?” 

She peeks over her shoulder too see Francis bending over her, his eyes filled with concern. Perhaps a note of disapproval. 

“I’m okay.” She says, attempting to push herself upright. 

She feels weak, like a wrung out washcloth. And she realizes dimly that she hasn’t been drinking water like the doctor said. Nor has she eaten dinner. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Francis demands, “The doctor said no physical labor.” 

“I was fidgeting.” Claire says, bracing her hands against the washer, “I needed something to take my mind off-”

“Jesus.” 

Claire catches Francis’s gaze from the corner of her eye. He’s gazing over her shorn hair, one hand hovering at the back of her exposed neck. 

“You said it was short, but-”

“It was either this, or not at all.” 

“I’m not disapproving.” 

“Yes you are.”

“Of the laundry. Claire, it can wait. Your health is more important.” 

“I know.” 

He lets her lean against the washer, catching her breath for a long moment. His hand is firm against her hip, but he doesn’t urge her to move faster than she wants to. 

“It’s good you’re home.” Claire says, at length, “I was about to start climbing the walls.” 

“I’m sorry I had to be out so late.” 

“This campaign is important. We can’t let up because I’m …. under the weather.” 

He doesn’t remark on that turn of phrase. It’s the one they meted out to friends, the media. A simple cold. She wishes it was a runny nose and a sore throat. 

“Did you eat?” He asks, running his fingers over the back of her neck. 

She shakes her head, and ducks her chin at the severity of his gaze. 

“No wonder you look like a wilted flower. We should find something for you to eat. Or order take-out, like the good old days? Hmm?” 

He’s trying to cheer her up with memories of college, of youth. Of days when their relationship wasn’t tainted by this egregious mistake. Only she was. 

She’s been through his two times before, but somehow, with Francis, it’s entirely different. Those other two times, she was too scared to be sad. 

“Whatever you want.” She murmurs. 

“Claire …” 

He trails off, but she can hear the question in his voice. A plea for her to be honest. 

Claire turns to face him, letting the washing machine support most of her weight. She grips the edge, hoping he won’t notice her knuckles white under the force of her grasp. 

“Do you ever think about the past?” She asks. 

His eyes narrow with curiosity, but he answers, “No, only the future.” 

“I do.” She says, “I think about all the choices I’ve made up to this point, how I got to this particular moment. I think about how one little difference could change everything.” 

He lets out a sigh as realization fills his eyes.

“Claire,” He begins, shaking his head. 

“I know. We’ve been over it.” She says, lifting a hand, “I’m not regretting my choice-”

“Then what good does thinking about it do?” 

“No good. But I can’t stop myself. It’s been on my mind all day.”

He shifts closer, pinning her against the washing machine. She can feel the vibration of it running directly through her spine and hips, into the core of her body. 

He lifts both hands to cradle her face, running a thumb across her left cheekbone. 

“Have you been crying?” He murmurs. 

She begins to shake her head, but he tightens his grip on her cheeks. 

“Don’t lie, darling.” 

She swallows hard, and averts her gaze from his. He can lock her head in place, but he can’t force her to look at him. He can’t force honesty. 

“We made this decision together.” Francis says, “I won’t be responsible for my wife’s misery.”

“I can’t stop being sad, Francis.” 

She smacks his hands away, frustration billowing behind the wall of depression. 

He lets out a sound of exasperation, as if he’s the victim in all of this madness. 

“I can’t force myself to stop being sad.” She says, cutting a hand through the air between them, “And you can’t guilt me into it either.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to do, and you know it.”

“I know we made this decision together, but I think I’m allowed to grieve it - even if I do know it’s the right choice.” She says, lifting her chin.

“It was the right choice.” 

They gaze at each other in silence, the churn and hum of the machines filling in the gasp of conversation. 

“Maybe I’ve never been good at this,” He says, at last, “But I want to help you. We do this together, or not all.” 

Claire draws in a deep breath, trying with all her might to push the weight of dread from her chest. 

_ He’s not the enemy.  _

She reaches out a hand in offering. 

He hesitates for only a moment before he takes her hand,  lacing his fingers methodically through her own. 

She pulls him back against her, slowly like reeling in a fish on a hook. He lets her control the pace, until their bodies are flush, and absorbing the vibrations of the washing machine. 

His eyes capture her. Their inky darkness is capable of such harshness - but for her, and only her, such compassion. She allows him to take the lead as his hand glides up her side, over the swell of her breast, and up to graze her cheek. 

“Claire.” He murmurs, his breath warm and gentle against her cheek. 

She turns her mouth up against the delicate whisper, begging him wordlessly to transport her from this dark moment. He kisses her, languorous and hesitant; it’s a foreign, clunky feeling, devoid of his usual skill and ease. 

When the kiss does not develop into something more, she pulls back sharply. 

“Why are you treating me like I’m breakable?” She demands. 

“Claire, the doctor said no sex for at least four weeks.” He says, firmly, “And it’s only been three.” 

“Did I mention sex?” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“Typical, isn’t it?” She asks, coolly, “The helpless, mourning woman simply wants cock.” 

“Claire-”

She shoves him away before he can protest further. 

Pushing past him, she leaves the lure of his arms and the soothing hum of the machines behind. 

 

~

 

She wakes the next morning with the sun slanting past the blinds, the birds singing cheerfully just outside the window. 

The other half the bed is empty. When she reaches over to feel the pillow, it’s cool. No indention left behind by Francis’s recent departure. 

He’s already gone. Has been gone. 

She languishes in the bed for another hour before dragging herself from it’s warm confines. 

She won’t play the part of that helpless, mourning woman she had degraded in front of Francis last night. 

In the light of day, she’s not sure which one of them had been more focused on sex. Did he want to save her? Or did she want him to ruin her? 

The whole day had been a blur - one she won’t dwell on for fear of repeating. 

She makes herself breakfast, conscious to drink a glass of water instead of coffee. She must mind what the doctor said. The last thing the campaign needs is for her to wind up in the hospital. A cold is one thing; fabricating a sudden illness to explain hospitalization is another beast entirely. 

Besides, Francis wouldn’t appreciate the focus being taken off of him. He never does. 

After breakfast, she wanders down in the hall to the laundry room. She hadn’t finished last night. The clothes in the dryer are wrinkled, and the ones in the washer smell like old dishwater. 

With a sigh, she starts over. 

While the washer and dryer run, she goes to her desk, and opens her laptop. 

She’s missed several days of work, and hasn’t glanced at her emails even once. Three weeks of correspondence and junk mail pile up like some steaming pile of garbage that demands her attention. 

She makes herself a cup of tea, places her glasses on her nose, and gets to work. 

Her shoulders are aching, her attention wavering by the time she’s sorted through all the unopened emails. She recalls one of the side effects being lack of concentration, but won’t be deterred by the doctor’s charge to take it easy. She still has a foundation to run, a job to do. People counting on her. 

The washer and dryer are done as well, and by the time she’s done folding everything and putting it away, half the day is gone. 

She’s mildly pleased that she’s whittled away most of the day without a single emotional outburst. No hair cutting. No sobbing. No self-pity. 

It’s been three weeks; maybe things are finally improving. 

As lunchtime approaches, she makes an executive decision to order lunch to the campaign headquarters. She meets the catering van in the parking lot, and greets the driver with a large tip. 

When she pushes open the office door and steps inside, all of their volunteers look up from their desk. 

One of the young ladies who works the phones rushing up to greet her, a smile glowing on her face. 

“Mrs. Underwood, you must be feeling better.” 

“I am, thank you.” 

The girl peers over Claire’s shoulder at the three people from the restaurant carrying in sandwich, cheese, and fruit platters. 

“Wow, you brought lunch?” 

“I did.” Claire says, smiling airily. “Is Francis around?” 

“He’s in his office. I think he’s on the phone, though.” 

“He won’t mind.” 

Claire brushes past the girl, and marches down the center aisle of desks to the office at the back of the building. The door is shut tight, and she can hear Francis’s adamant, commanding tone through the wood. He’s persuading someone to do something. Just like always. 

She turns the knob slowly, and eases the door open. 

“Yes, yes, yes, you know I’m good for it.” Francis is saying as she enters. 

He looks up sharply, an expression of shock washing over his face at her appearance, before he clears his throat. 

He spins his chair to face the wall - ignoring her distraction. 

“If your people vote for me in this election, they’ll be banking on success. I’ve already proven myself in Congress for the past ten years. What more do you want, Jack?” 

Claire crosses her arms, and glances around the office. Tuning out Francis’s rapid-fire conversation, she observes the plaques hanging on the walls. All the accolades, all the successes. He wouldn’t have any of them without her. And he wouldn’t have any more in the future if she’d chosen to keep the baby. 

Only God knew if he’d come to that realization one day. 

Francis finishes up his phone call, and sets the receiver down with a clatter. 

“Claire, I don’t want to hear any excuses about why you’re here instead of home in bed.” He says, immediately shifting from harassing his friend Jack to harassing her. 

“I ordered take-out for all of our wonderful volunteers.” Claire says, “You know, they do so much for us.” 

“Of course I do.” 

He levels her with a nearly threatening gaze that may have scared someone else. 

“I had to get out of the house, Francis.” She admits, putting her hands up in defeat, “I opened my email for the first time in three weeks, and realized that I need to get back to work.”

“It’s only been three weeks, Claire. The doctor said it could be another three before you’re feeling fully healed.” 

“I feel fine.” 

“You don’t.” Francis says, rising from his desk, “I found you slumped over the washing machine last night, getting ready to pass out on the floor. What would have happened if I hadn’t come home right then? Would I be leaning over you in a hospital bed right now?” 

“Don’t be dramatic.” 

“I’m being realistic, that’s what I’m being.” He says, waving a finger at her, “You’re being ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculous?” She whispers. 

His remark is cutting, but no more than the self-deprecating thoughts she’s turned inward in the past three weeks. 

“You’re not the one who had to give up a baby.” Claire says, her voice twisting with sudden, brutal emotion, “Who had to go into that clinic, and lie on that table and-”

“I had a hand in that child as well.” Francis interrupts with a sneer, “You think I don’t feel any of this?” 

“Don’t insult me. You’ve never wanted children. You were  _ relieved  _ when I agreed to the abortion.” 

“So, it is my fault, then?” He says, poising his hands on his hips, “I _ am _ responsible for all this misery you’re going through?” 

Claire huffs out a sigh, and presses a hand to her forehead. 

“No.” She whispers, “No, that’s not what I meant.” 

Francis breathes out his own weary sigh as he moves around to the desk where she wavers like a sapling in the wind. 

He takes her by the waist, his hands strong and capable. 

“Claire, go home.” He whispers, “Better yet, let me get a car for you. You shouldn’t be driving in this condition.” 

“I’m fine. I can drive myself.” 

“Then take it, and go home. Rest, like the doctor ordered. Stop trying to prove to me that you’re stronger than all of this; I already know that you are.” 

Claire lets her hands fall from her face, and she tentatively meets his gaze. 

A lesser man may have been frightened by this enormous emotion, this confusing mix of loss, relief, horror, and disappointment. Anyone else could have faulted her for it. Blamed her even. But he wouldn’t, no matter how she frustrated him. 

“Okay.” She says, lifting her chin. 

“Good.” 

He releases her, and rounds his desk to reclaim his seat. He’s already shuffling papers again as she walks toward the door. 

“Oh, Claire?” 

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, and turns her chin to meet his gaze. 

He smiles softly. “A year from now, this will all seem like a bad dream.” 

She conjures her own smile, and ducks out the door. 

~

 

Francis arrives home on time that night, though Claire is less relieved about his return than last night. They say little as she puts dinner before them. He makes a few remarks about the course of the campaign as she brings out a fresh bottle of wine from the cooler. 

She screws the opener into the cork, and braces one hand the neck of the bottle as she pulls. The cork remains stubbornly lodged even as she exerts all her strength. 

“Claire, let me do that.” 

She looks up to see that he’s risen from the table, and come to her side. 

“I can get it.” 

“Just let me.” 

He reaches for the bottle, but she yanks it away, still pulling with her fingers wrapped around the top of the opener. 

“Claire, come now-”

He swipes at the bottle again, this time barely catching it by the neck. He pulls; she lodges it underneath her arm, spinning away. 

He’s still holding on when the cork pops free, and wine spills and froths from the opening. Dark red splashes down the front of her shirt and pants, and lands in a splattering pool on the white tile of the kitchen floor. 

“Godddamnit, Claire.” He growls, shaking droplets of wine from his hand. 

“I had it.” She retorts, setting the wine bottle down on the counter with the clank. 

She stands back, peering down at her white shirt tainted with an ugly slash of deep red. It’s turning almost black as it absorbs into the expensive fabric. 

“What are you trying to prove, for Christ’s sake?” He insists. 

“I’m not trying prove anything except that I don’t need you to open a bottle of wine.” She replies, tartly. 

Turning on her heel, she marches out of the kitchen, and down the hall to the bedroom. She mutters a curse as she strips out of the stained shirt. Tossing it in the hamper, she reaches back for the zipper of her skirt. 

She gasps when the door of the bedroom bangs open, and she spins around to see Francis striding toward her. 

“Francis-”

Her protest withers and dies as he takes her by the hips, and drags her into a harsh kiss. 

She wriggles in his embrace at first, the simmer and burn of her anger flaring before it melds into the rising smolder of desire. One moment she’s slapping at his shoulders to free herself, the next she’s dagging him against her by the shirt collar. 

Her mouth is tingling and swollen when he severs the kiss, and leans back just far enough to press his gaze against hers. 

“Is there something you want from me, Claire?” He whispers, his hands sliding down her hips and over the swell of her backside, “Something you need to move past this?” 

She turns her face away, but he presses his mouth against her throat as if it had been an offering. She bites back a moan as his mouth and the hint of stubble scrapes the underside of her jaw. 

“Tell me.” He presses, his voice turning to a throaty groan, “Tell me what I can do.” 

Her eyes slide back and shut. There’s little he must do to make her want him in this fractured state; the smallest blow could sending her walls toppling. And he knows just where the weak points are, just where to place his knuckles and tap. 

He breaths hot, wet kisses up her throat and the shell of her ear, spilling tingles in lavish ripples down her spine. Reaching her cheekbone, he whispers so low and deep she can feel the vibration of his voice in her skull. 

“Whatever it is, Claire … you know I can match it. I can take it. I can produce it. I can make you feel whatever it is you want to feel.” 

“I know, I know.” She chokes out, her hands grappling at his shirt collar in both desperation for intimacy and escape. 

“Do you want to hit me?” He presses, his hands reaching up to turn her face back towards him, “Curse me? Blame me?” 

Their eyes meet, both of them holding a storm. 

“Is that it?” 

She shakes her head, throat too locked with emotion to speak again. 

“Then what it is it?” He asks, his voice growing softer, “You have to explain it to me, Claire, because I feel as if you hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you, Francis.” She whispers, her voice hoarse and distant, like an already faded memory. 

“But?” 

“God, you’re relentless.” She says, closing her eyes against the burning weight of his gaze. 

“Yes. I am.” 

She swallows thickly, trying to wade through the swamp of emotion clogging her chest. How can she explain these feelings to him when she doesn’t understand them fully herself? 

“Just kiss me.” She whispers. 

He leans in slowly, placing a soft kiss against her lower lip, nibbling gently on it. 

“Not there.” She breathes, her body flushing with heat. 

He draws in a audible, shaking breath, and she feels him pressing hard against her belly. 

She lets him nudge her back toward the bed, until finally, she collapses against the comforter. He’s overtop her in an instant, his mouth bearing down on her throat, her chest. 

She doesn’t open her eyes as he drags the bra straps free from her shoulders, and peels the cups away from her swelling nipples. His mouth drags against one, sending a frisson of need straight to her core. She arches, her body pulsing with need. He takes advantage of the space, and slides his hand under her to locate the zipper of her skirt. He drags it down just enough to relieve her of the garment. It stretches tight over her hips before sliding free, and he discards it with a yank of his fist. 

She wills herself not to open her eyes as the weight of his body leaves her. She can’t see where he is, but she trusts he’s right where he belongs. Kneeling between her legs. Relieving her of reality. 

She makes a shuddering noise of pleasure at the stroke of his fingers against her inner thigh. He plies her open slowly, fingers walking against the pressure points along her leg until he reaches the elastic of her panties. 

She purses her lips over her teeth, muting a sound of frantic need. She wants to cry his name - scream it even. Lift this awful weight from her chest with the familiar syllables, and then with the response it would garner. 

But she can’t speak. Her throat is in knots, her chest an iron prison of doubt and pain. 

She feels herself coming apart at the seams already as he drags the panties from her hips, and down her legs. When she feels them slide free of her ankles, she almost stops breathing. Her heart is a percussive, deafening noise, drumming in sync with her body’s rising tempo of desire. 

He guides her legs open, leaving her bare and aching against the cool rush of air. She can feel the heat, and the moisture, the harsh physicality of the desire pumping through her. 

It’s punishing, this need. Not because her body is too weak to support it, but because it’s the only thing squeezing the fractured pieces of herself together. She’s never felt so helpless, so weak. At least not with Francis; he’s always made her feel strong, indestructible. 

His mouth comes down on her without prelude. 

He’s a consistent, purposeful lover. There is no supposition, only action. No trivialities, or teasing. 

And no question. He’s going to make her come, no matter the hole rending itself open wider and wider in her chest. 

She arches, her mouth stretching open in a silent cry. Grabbing at his hair, she pushes herself into the slide of his tongue, the suckle of his lips. Her body, untouched in the last several weeks, cries out in beautiful agony. 

He’s merciless. No gentility, no warm up.

His tongue brands sweet pressure and wet heat into her clitoris while one hand slides up her belly to knead one breast. The massage quickly turns rough, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching, tugging. 

She twists and bucks beneath him as the wash of sensations builds at a swift, unbearable rate. Pleasure pounds through her, first in slow but steady waves, and then in drumming, crushing tides. No space between breaths, no relief between strokes of his tongue. Only persistent, demanding need and pleasure courses through her weakened body like sandpaper. 

It seems only a matter of seconds before she’s arching up against him, her hips bucking into his face, her body spilling heat and wetness. The orgasm comes in hard, clenching spasms. She jerks against him, repetitive and violent. 

He clutches her hips, pinning her against his mouth as the spasms all but take her apart. She can feel the low vibration of his satisfied grunt, the maddening lap of his tongue against her sensitized body. It drags the orgasm out, wringing every last drop and tremor from her. 

When the pleasure finishes having it’s way with her, her mind is a blank canvas for the first time in weeks. She can’t see or feel anything but the pleasure, and the soreness in her clit from the friction of his tongue. Every nerve-ending leads back between her legs. Every thought circles back to Francis’s mouth on her. 

And it’s a relief. A sweet, fleeting relief that she knows will be gone when she opens her eyes. 

So she doesn’t. 

As he climbs up onto the bed, and pulls her into a embrace against his chest, she keeps her eyes firmly closed. It’s all the barrier she has left between herself and this cruel, cruel world. 

 

~

 

It’s imperative that they move. 

They can’t stay this way forever. 

He whispers it to her as the shadows grow long, and the night closes in around their embracing posture. She whimpers, mourning the loss of simplicity in sex and intimacy for the harsh landscape of reality. 

But she gets up without any further urging. 

As she gathers a new set of clothing from the dresser, Francis sits on the edge of the bed watching her. 

“Thank you, Francis.” She says, without looking over. 

“No. Thank  _ you. _ ”

“Why?” 

“I’ve been doggy-paddling along the shore for weeks now, looking for you. But you weren’t in the shallows. You got dragged away into the deep waters by a rip tide.” 

She huffs out a coarse laugh. 

“You’ve always been good with words.” 

“Even if it’s only an analogy, I feel exhausted as if it were real.” 

“So do I.” 

“I thought we had discussed it sufficiently before we made the choice. Maybe I was wrong.” 

“No.” 

He rises from the bed, and steps up behind her. She can feel the question drilling through the back of her skull. 

“No, I know we made the right choice.” 

“But?” 

“But the other night when I asked you if you thought about the past, I wanted a real answer.” 

“I gave you one.” 

“Everyone thinks about the past.” 

“I try not to.” 

Claire turns to face him, and he steps closer to meet her. 

“It’s useless.” He says, quietly, a small frown curling his brow. “To think about the things that are already done and gone. I’ve never known you to waste energy on uselessness.”

She ducks her head. Not ashamed, no. He’s seen all worst in her, all the best. It’s her own view of herself she can’t live with.   
“I know it won’t happen, but I think about the possible futures we could have.” She says, “What our lives would be like a year from now, if we had made a different choice.” 

“And how do you see it?” 

“I’m not suggesting it would be better than what we have now - just different.” 

“If it’s not better, then what is the point?” 

“Because, it was a possibility, just for a second. And it wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I put a lot of thought into it. I put just as much thought into this possibility as I did in the other one.”

“But you realized it wasn’t what you wanted.” 

“Not right now. We have this campaign, our careers. It wouldn’t be the right time.”

“But?” 

“It’s a ‘what if?’ An unanswered question to something I wasn’t ready to ask. Maybe I’ve let it possess me.” 

“Claire …” 

She cocks her head, curious at the thoughtful tone in his voice. He had never truly considered it, and she knew it. He would never experience this detached sense of loss, or the ghost impression of the promise of a life inside her. 

He breathes in deeply, suddenly, as if waking from a reverie.

“Someone once said, ‘The optimist believes that we live in the best of all possible worlds. The pessimist fears this is true’.” 

A pause. He lets the implication of the words sink in. 

And she looks away, aware of how he’s framing her. Aware he’s right. 

“I’m an optimist, Claire.” Francis says, reaching up to touch her cheek, “So dry your eyes, darling. This is the best possible world. It always has been, and it always will be.” 

He leaves her then, picking up his clothing on the way out. 

He knows she needs to be alone. He’ll come back when her cheeks are dry. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Four weeks after crossing the threshold of the clinic, Claire steps through the doors of Clean Water Initiative with her chin lifted, her shoulders set. 

Up and down the main aisle, telephones ring shrilly while hushed voices respond in a collective hum. The swift pace of the office comes to a standstill as Claire strides between the desks toward her office; even the phones seem to cease their jangling. 

“Mrs. Underwood, you’re back.” 

The young woman at the desk closest to Claire takes a step forward, smiling broadly. 

Evelyn rushes into the bullpen from her office, her rounded face lit with surprise. 

“Claire, I didn’t know you were coming back today.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss.” Claire says, waving a hand. “How about we meet in your office in an hour and you can catch me up on everything that’s been going on?” 

“Of course.” 

As Evelyn retreats, the office begins to shift back into motion. They’re all casting fond gazes over their shoulders as Claire walks between them to her office. 

They all love and admire her, yet she can’t ignore the prickle of doubt in the back of her mind. A small, guilty part of her imagines they all know what transpired in the last four weeks. Francis would tell her she’s being paranoid ….  _ Ridiculous.  _

Once she’s inside her office, she breathes out a steadying sigh. 

The space is as neat and comforting as she recalls. 

Taking a seat at her desk, she powers on her computer for the first time in weeks, and glances with dread at her phone flashing with dozens of voicemails. It will take her another four weeks just to dig herself back out of all the backed up paperwork and missed calls. 

She dives into the paperwork first, satisfied with ignoring the people no doubt badgering her from the voicemail for as long as she can manage. 

An hour later, Evelyn taps on the door. 

“Come in.” 

Evelyn slips into the office, carrying a stack of folders under one arm. 

“Am I interrupting?” 

“Of course not.” Claire says, waving to the chair across from her. “Please, sit down.” 

Evelyn sets the stack of folders on the edge of Claire’s desk and takes a seat. 

“Well,” She says, smiling kindly, “I’m so glad to see you back. The office has not been the same without you.”

“Thank you, Evelyn, that’s sweet of you to say.” 

“This is your charity. You always know what’s best.” Evelyn says. 

“I wanted to get back soon, but …” 

“First bronchitis, then pneumonia …” Evelyn says, shaking her head, “You poor thing.” 

Claire manages a thin smile. “It was rough for a few weeks, but I have a wonderful doctor.” 

“And I hope Frank wasn’t putting too much time into campaigning while you were laid up.” 

“No, he was ready and willing to help, but I knew he was needed elsewhere.” 

“You two have always had such a strong relationship.” Evelyn says, smiling. 

“Well, thank you. But we should get to work. I don’t have any time to waste.” 

“Of course.” 

 

~

 

That evening, Claire descends the stairs in her jogging gear to find Francis just walking through the front door. 

“Another late night.” She remarks. 

“It could have been later, but I’m tired.” He says. 

Claire pauses on the last step as he ambles to meet her, and wraps both arms around her middle. 

“I wanted to come home, and see my wife.” He murmurs into her breast. 

“Too tired to come on a run with me?” She asks, stroking the back of his neck. 

“Never.”  He says, tilting his head back to meet her gaze. “Give me a minute to change.” 

“Okay.” 

She waits in the hall while he trudges upstairs. 

The house is silent, except for the distant tick of a clock; yet she can still hear the vibrations of all that has grown and tangled like weeds through the center of their world in the last four weeks. Another night she may not have pressed Francis to join her, but she wants to be with him outside of these four walls. Until coming home feels normal and relaxed again. Until she can sit by the window, at his side, tasting his mouth on the end of a shared cigarette, without looking over and questioning their relationship.

She’s jarred from thought when Francis jogs down the stairs to join her.

“Ready?” 

She simply nods, casting him a bare smile.

Taking her hand, he leads them out the front door, and down to the sidewalk. 

He stands back while she stretches, and she can feel his wordless appreciation rippling down her backside when she bends to touch her toes. 

“You should be stretching too.” She says. “You’ll get a leg cramp halfway home, and complain the rest of the way back.” 

“Will I?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“I’ve just spent half the day running all over D.C. I think I’m stretched out enough.” 

She straightens, rotating her neck and shoulders. “We’ll see.” 

She takes off without giving him notice, and he sprints to catch up with her. They fall into step several yards down the sidewalk, their feet drumming the pavement in sync. 

The night air is cool and sweet, yet hardly a breeze rustles past to ease the sheen of sweat on her brow. She’s sweating in minutes, but she welcomes the burn in her muscles, the ache of her lungs. After following the doctor’s admonition not to exercise for the past four weeks, it’s freeing to feel herself propelled and exerted by her own strength. 

Halfway around the block, Francis catches her by the elbow. 

“Hold on.” He pants, bending to brace his hands on his knees. 

“Do you need a minute?”

He grunts, having a finger. “Just one.” 

“You should jog with me more often. You would feel less winded if you did it more frequently.” 

He mutters a response as he eases down to the curb. 

Moonlight spills through the branches of the tree overhead, framing him in dusty illumination. The breeze rattles the leaves, and toys at his hair like gentle, invisible fingers. A single car speeds past them, leaving behind the faint scent of gasoline and the heat of an engine, before they are left in utter silence, alone except for the bowing trees that border this secluded strip of pavement.

Another night, another time, she would want to keep running. But this moment is serene and devoid of the chaotic chatter she’s battled from her mind for weeks, and she doesn’t want to go home. 

Sitting down next to him, she crosses her arms over her knees and gazes up the moon. It’s a waxing moon, not quite full. It would be more poetic if it were full, she thinks; or perhaps more poetic if it were new and draped in shadow. But they have always existed outside of the expected, the orthodox. Even now, as they gaze across an uncertain sea at each other, poised at opposite ends of a delicate spectrum of thought, they’re blazing a new trail back toward the middle.

“Today was your first day back.” He says. 

“Mm.” 

He casts a inquisitive glance, probing for more. 

“It was good to be back, being productive.” 

“Did they ask a lot of questions?” 

“No. They respect my privacy.” 

“Good.”  He says, reaching over to squeeze her knee. 

“Evelyn did say something that made me think.” 

“Did she?” 

“Mm, she said we’ve always been a strong couple. She said so after I told her that I wasn’t concerned with how much you continued to work while I was sick.” 

“What was so curious about that?” 

“Nothing, it’s quite true.” Claire says. She meets his gaze, finding him smiling gently at her. “I just want you to know that I’m not questioning the choice we made.I haven’t forgotten the reasons why we chose to be together - as spouses, as partners. Evelyn was right - we are strong. But we’re only as strong as a unit as we are as individuals.  I need to be strong - about this choice, and all the ones in the future.” 

“You are strong, Claire. You  _ were  _ strong.” 

“Not as strong as I wanted to be.”

He takes her hand, lacing his fingers through her own, and dragging her knuckles to his mouth. She closes her eyes as he kisses each one, and makes his way down to her wrist. 

“There was never a moment I doubted your resolve.” He murmurs. 

“Don’t flatter me. You know flattery doesn’t work with me.” 

He peeks up at her, his mouth curling against her wrist. 

“What if I said I wanted to take you home instead?” 

“That’s not flattery?” 

“No, it’s the most direct approach I know.” 

He doesn’t wait for her agreement. He rises from the curb, and tugs her along with him, his exhaustion forgotten. 

 

~

 

They don’t turn on the lights. 

Claire leads them up the stairs in darkness, knowing by heart her way to their bedroom. 

The elastic fabric of her running gear clings to every inch of her skin by a layer of sweat, but the tingle and itch crawling up and down her body isn’t from the exertion of running. A slumbering, ignored part of herself stirs back to life, stretching it’s stiff muscles and aching bones. There’s a shift, a vibration deep inside, unlike the desperation that had clawed her raw the last time Francis had touched her. 

At the top of the stairs, he takes the lead. His fingers loop around her wrist, firm in their confidence and desire. She lets him take her by the waist, push her against the wall just beside their bedroom door. 

His breath trickles hot down her throat just before he presses a hot kiss below her ear. She tilts her head back to accept the pattern of kisses down her throat, but doesn’t make a noise even as he reaches up to unzip her jacket. The zipper groans open, allowing the fabric to part from her breasts. Underneath, she’s only wearing a black, spandex bra. His hand rises up to take one breast, kneading and massaging through the thin, slippery fabric to bring her nipple to a hard, aching peak. 

Dizzy with the wash of pleasure, she realizes she’s stopped breathing, and gasps suddenly - a hoarse, guttural sound which tangles with a moan, and hastens his pace. 

He strips the jacket from her arms, tossing it onto the floor behind him. His hands mold to her lower back, following the curve of her spine, and then her backside. One hand cups her ass while the other slides over the jut of her hipbone and down to claim her crotch. 

She rises on her toes, a strangled whimper wrestling at the back of her throat as his fingers grind against her clitoris through the layers of constricting fabric. 

She purses her lips tight over plaintive cry. She won’t beg, no matter how much she wants to. 

Francis lifts his head from her neck, and finds her eyes through the shadows. Their noses brush, heavy breaths mingling between them as they breathe out silent arguments, and counter-arguments. He doesn’t stop touching her; he’s waiting for her to say something, and she wishes he wouldn’t. 

After a long minute, his hand eases, and slides away. She bites back a sound of frustration as he lifts the hand from between her legs to her cheek. His thumb slides along her cheekbone, a gentle and familiar reminder of his affection. 

“How do you want it, Claire?” He whispers. 

She glances away as he slides the clip free from her bangs, allowing the strands of hair to fall across her brow. 

He nudges her chin back towards him, branding her with a persistent, burning gaze. 

They stare at one another for long moment. She can feel the heat and moisture spiraling through her middle, the growing, pestering voice of desire shouting from the back of her mind. She knows what she wants, and the thought shouldn’t surprise her any longer. Not when she chose a man like Francis. 

“Claire?” 

His voice drags her back to the present moment, from within the recesses of her mind and need. 

“When have you ever asked me that?” She says. 

“Plenty of times.” 

“Not that many. Not tonight.” 

A frown flickers across his brow. He’s not concerned; he’s intrigued. 

“You’re a man who knows what he wants.” She says, cocking her chin up in challenge. “A man who knows how to take it. So take it.” 

The statement hangs heavy between them; a millstone wrapped around both their necks, and dragging them down into the hot clutches of violent desires. 

Even in the shadows, she can see the shift in his eyes, the glint of reckless passion. There’s no containing him; and she wouldn’t want to. She can absorb, and contain. She can flush out all that has come before, and be the blank canvas on which he etches his desire. 

He jars into motion, both hands wrapping around her waist and dragging her away from the wall. Nudging her into the room ahead of him, he  guides her toward the neatly made bed. When her knees hit the edge of the mattress, he drags her to the a stop. His arms wind around her, one hand spreading over her belly, the other snaking up to clutch her jaw. 

“Take the leggings off.” He whispers. 

She pries her fingers open from the fists at her sides, and reaches up to grip the waistband of the pants. The spandex peels from her hips, down her thighs. She lifts one leg at a time to tug the clinging fabric from her ankles before discarding the leggings on the floor. Cool air soothes the heat surging down her body, but in no way slakes the hunger raging through her center. 

She stands still in his embrace, containing the vortex of need tearing through her. 

Behind her, he’s breathing low and swift. His hand trembles around her jaw. She waits for him to snap, knowing the moment is coming, as it has a hundred times before. 

In a second, she’s down on the mattress with her face in the sheets. The motion is so quick, she can hardly absorb it before the next one comes. He climbs onto the mattress between her legs, and grasps the back of her panties with one fist. He yanks the fragile garment away, breaking stitches in his haste. They catch on her ankles for a second before he tears them free, leaving her vulnerable. 

She hears the rustle of clothing, but doesn’t look over her shoulder to watch him disrobe. She can well imagine the swollen, reddened flesh, the radiating heat of arousal. The look in his eyes is memorized in her mind; that look could make worlds collide - but hers is the only one that matters in this moment. 

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to moan for the first time as he shifts overtop her, and presses his fingers between her legs. Her hips arch from the sheets at the stroke of his fingers, and the steep angle that bears down on her clitoris. She feels herself throbbing and wet to the caress, the need twisting and aching through her. 

He presses closer, his breath rushing hot against the back of her neck. He slides his other hand through her shorn hair, spilling shivers across her scalp, until he reaches the crown of her head. Fingers curling into a fist around her hair, he pulls her head up from the sheets. His mouth brushes against her ear, delicate in juxtaposition of what’s to come. 

Slowly, he presses his fingers into her. Cleaving swollen, aching flesh. Shooting sparks of pleasure through every fiber to her being. 

“Jesus …” She pants, squirming beneath him. 

He grunts a low chuckle, pleased with himself. 

“Is this what you want?” He murmurs, deliberately fucking his fingers into her. 

A choked sound lurches against the back of her throat, and she silences it behind her clenched jaw. Instead, she nods against his firm grip on her hair. 

He robs her of the swiftly approaching pleasure when he removes his fingers. She swallows back a whimper as he drags his hand across one ass cheek, smearing her slick arousal into her own skin. The next hot brush of flesh against her aching clit is the rigid stroke of his cock. He rocks languidly against her, giving her but a taste. 

“Is this?” He presses, his voice turning to a muted groan as she gushes against his cock. 

She arches back against him, angling to take him into her on the next stroke. 

His cockhead slides against her opening, hardly breaching her before he pauses. 

She thinks of begging him, ordering him, prodding him. Her body is aching and weary, but she’s not looking for pleasure, or even adoration. She’s looking for something far more lasting, and primal. It’s not something she can manufacture with her voice; he’ll give it to her when he’s ready, when he’s done toying with her. 

He leans back on his heels, and nudges her thigh. 

“Turn over.” 

She twists onto her back, and meets his gaze. Her heart thuds out an invariable rhythm of desire; not urgent, but necessary. 

He takes her by the hips, and drags her closer. Her thighs spread over his, framing the jutting figure of his engorged cock. 

“Take off your bra.” He whispers, flicking a finger toward the last remaining garment. 

She strips it off over her head, her motions slow and precise. Her breasts spill free of the constricting material, nipples already hard and dusky against the cool rush of air. 

Bending forward, he to takes her wrists and pins them above her head. His gaze scorches up her belly and chest, flaying her breasts and throat before consuming her face. She trembles under the primal heat and severity. The cutting edge of his desire is like a knife held to her throat.

She’s captive, willingly, her arms trapped above her head, her pleasure under lock and key until he touches her just so. 

She closes her eyes as his mouth descends on one breast. His exhale spills warmth across her nipple just before the stroke of his tongue sends pleasure sizzling through nerve-endings that wind straight to her groin. She arches, a snake under it’s charmer’s spell. Her reward is the suckle of his mouth, leaving her nipple raw and swollen. He goes to the other, peppering her skin with almost chaste kisses before her clamps down on the tender bud of skin. The prick of his teeth tears a gasp from her throat. She bucks underneath him, knees jabbing him in the ribs. He shifts down to pin her with his weight, rendering her squirming and helpless. 

The sweet torture continues for another breathless minute before he slides up to seal his mouth over hers. The kiss is hard, bruising - he muffles her high-pitched sound of pleasure and shock as he thrusts into her without any further foreplay. 

Her body clamps around him, pleasure and a hint of pain rippling down her body at the harsh way he takes her. The roiling need inside her cries out as the hard length of his cock stretches her open, and drives against her tender, aching parts. 

He severs the kiss, allowing her moan to spill from her lips unhindered. His gaze pins to her slack expression of pleasure, a gritted smile curling his mouth. Keeping her arms trapped above her head, he shifts to his knees to leverage his thrusts harder against her. She lifts her knees against her sides, splaying herself open to the punishing rhythm. Her head tosses against the sheets with every thrust, his pace driving whimpers free from the locked place in her chest. 

She welcomes the impact, the raw and hungry nature of this encounter. 

How long has it been since he fucked her like this? Too long. 

Their last intimate encounter had been that of a trapeze artist falling to the safety net. He’d caught her, saved her. But she didn’t want to be saved, didn’t want to be adored. She had never asked that of him, and she hated that circumstances had pushed her to that point. 

This feral joining, this savage exchange of need and power is something she can fathom. They are on equal ground here, even if she is the one taking his cock with her arms pinned. There is something so erotic and powerful in this abandon, this mix of pleasure and pain. She feels it surging through her like lighting, building toward a devastating climax. She feels more powerful now than when he’d used his mouth because she knows this kind of love can’t hurt her. He could never hurt her with this; but the weakness of that last encounter is a type of useless pain that they can’t bear. 

With a grunt and a tremble, the punishing pace of his thrusts come to a stuttering halt. He bows over her, body trembling from head-to-toe as he releases inside her. She feels the flush of slick heat, the dribble of excess against her inner thigh as he continues to pump out a fading rhythm. Slowly, he sinks down against her, breathing heavily. 

She slides her fingers through his hair as he rests against her chest. 

His voice rumbles against her ribcage. “Did it hurt?”

She knows what he means, but the connotations are practically endless. 

“Not much.”

“The doctor will have to rap my knuckles at your next appointment if you’re lying.” 

“Luckily for you, I’m not.” 

He lifts his head from her chest, and pins her with a somber gaze. 

“I’ll rap them for you, if you like.” She says. 

“Only if it hurt.” 

“It didn’t.” 

He pushes himself up, and shifts onto the mattress next to her. Reclining at her side, he reaches out to trace her belly, and the curve of her hipbone. 

She closes her eyes as he draws a tightening circle just below her hips. Opening her legs, she invites to firm line his finger follows to travel down against her clitoris. He strokes her labia with his thumb, igniting fresh pleasure through her core. Need clamps tight inside her as he caresses her labia apart, and nudges against her opening, still weeping with his release. 

Her breath quickens and catches, body stiffening and arching toward the caress. He drags his fingertips along the slit until he reaches her clitoris. Here, he circles gently, the feathery touch all but driving her mad.

She bites back a protest, and lies perfectly still. Her hands curl into white-knuckled fists above her head, the only signal she’ll give him that the pleasure is almost unbearable. 

He kisses her rigid mouth and jaw, trailing down to find the wild beat of her pulse. He kisses against the drumming vein as he allows his touch to grow firmer against her clitoris. 

Spreading her legs wider, she arches into the touch, unable to contain the torrent of need pounding through her. It pulsates through every inch, but the pang between her legs is more than she can take. The building moans burst past her lips like water from a broken dam. She cries out, low and strangled, as her body twists toward the blissful, torturous friction of his fingers. 

He presses closer to her side, and she can feel the burn of his gaze on her face. But she can’t open her eyes for fear of losing the stampeding threat of orgasm, or this euphoria sweeping through her on the crest of aching pleasure. 

“I’m close …” She rasps, urging her hips into the swirl of his fingers. 

The words are needless, but she’s desperate for the orgasm teasing at the edges of her mind. And he responds just as she’d hoped - by hastening and hardening the circle of his fingertips around her clitoris. 

Her body clamps, harder and harder in waves of pre-orgasmic shudders, until finally, the tenuous thread holding the pleasure back snaps wide open. She lurches into the caress, spasms filling her and billowing out to send her physically shaking against his chest. He drags her against him as the orgasm spills through her in swift, violent rifts. 

She’s shaking, blinking back senseless tears by the time the orgasm dwindles away into pleasant, humming aftershocks. 

He grabs her, crushing her against his chest. There’s desperation in the embrace, as if they’ve both stumbled upon something valuable they thought they’d lost. 

“Francis-”

He silences her with a bracing kiss, and she says no more. 

They lie in silence together as the night grows later, the shadows longer. She’s not sure how long it is before she starts to move again. 

He lets her up without protest, but asks, “Where are you going?” 

“I want a cigarette.” She says, snatching her robe from the end of the bed. “Coming?” 

She hears his footfalls behind her as she descends the stairs to the kitchen. She opens the window, allowing in the sweet, summer breeze and the buzz and chirp of crickets. Flipping open the small, metal box, she plucks one cigarette free. 

As she lights up, Francis rounds the bottom of the staircase. He smiles faintly before crossing the room to join her. 

She takes a few drags of the cigarette before offering it to him. 

He takes it, breathing in the smoke and nicotine. 

“I did it.” She says, her voice quiet and raw. 

“Did what?” 

“I cut my hair.” 

His eyebrows rise in a question. 

“I was upset. It was silly. I cut it, and then I went to the salon and had it fixed. Then I lied to you about it.” 

“I see.” He says, his tone carefully measured with equal parts concern and curiosity. 

“I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize myself anymore.” Claire continues, taking the cigarette back from him, “I’m not that woman anymore, and I wanted to visualize that, accept it.” 

“You’re the same woman I’ve always known.” 

“Then maybe there’s things you don’t know.” She says, perhaps too sharply. 

He frowns, releasing a dubious laugh. “Claire …?” 

“This isn’t the first abortion I’ve had, Francis.” She says, lifting her chin. “It’s the third.” 

She doesn’t look at him, but she can’t feel the weight of his shocked gaze impacting along the side of her face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands.

“Because, you didn’t need to know. It would have influenced our decision.” 

He sputters for a moment before snatching the cigarette from her, and extinguishing it in the small, glass bowl. 

“We don’t lie to each other, Claire.”

“I didn’t lie to you.” 

“Ommitted. It makes the same damn difference.” 

“I had the other two when I was a young, dumb teenager. It was the right choice then, and it was the right choice now. But I know it would have bothered you.” 

He clenches his jaw, and turns away - if only to hide the truth in his eyes. 

“I know you don’t want to hurt me.” She says, softly, “And that’s how you would have viewed it. One time is a mistake; three is …a reopened wound.”

“You could have told me.” 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you-”

“Isn’t it?” 

He turns a scathing gaze on her, but she doesn’t waver. She holds her chin up, her gaze steady. 

“I’m being honest now.” She says, “Can you at least appreciate that?” 

He considers her for a long moment before he gives a clipped nod. 

“You remember what you said when you proposed?” She asks, offering him a gentle smile. 

“Of course I do.” 

“You didn’t offer me children, or happiness.” She says, “And I should have remembered that too. I know having that child would have asked too much - of both of us.”

“We’re going places that children don’t belong.” 

She nods, easing down to the windowsill. Glancing at the box of cigarettes, she asks, “Light another?” 

He takes one, and places it between his lips. She holds up the lighter, and he leans in to accept the flame. He sits down on the sill across from her, puffing in silence. 

Behind the haze of smoke, she can see him gazing at her. She sees how much he loves her, respects her, but she sees a hundred questions. He won’t ask, and she won’t tell. They’ve only ever revealed as much as they wanted; that at least, will never change. As he passes her the cigarette, she smiles. They won’t talk about this anymore, at least not for awhile. They have a campaign to win; the world is waiting. 

 

~the end~ 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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